The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  Suddenly, the penny drops for Mitchell. ‘You think I want your house? This house?’

  I can’t help but feel piqued by his incredulous tone. It might not be a Beverly Hills mansion, but there’s nothing wrong with my little cottage.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ he continues.

  ‘Aren’t you going to sue me? That’s what you do. You’re a litigious lot.’

  ‘Actors?’

  ‘Americans.’

  He laughs then. It’s a real belly laugh, deep and undulating, and it makes me shiver just a little.

  Must be the wine.

  ‘No, Kitty. I’m not going to sue you and I have no designs on your home. Lovely as it is,’ he adds quickly when he sees my miffed expression. ‘You’re absolutely right: I did deserve that slap. I came to apologise to you.’

  I feel my shoulders drop a good inch as the tension of the day abruptly dissipates. Mitchell must see it too, because he tries his luck again. ‘So, can I come in? Please?’

  But still I hesitate, not sure just what I’d be inviting into my home.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Kitty! Let the man inside!’ comes Frankie’s voice from the living room.

  In the next moment she’s at my side, muscling me out of the way as she extends her hand to Mitchell. I notice she’s fluffed up her hair and applied a slick of fuchsia lipstick. ‘Hello, Mitchell. I’m Frances,’ she purrs.

  I swallow a laugh. So it’s Frances now?

  ‘Don’t mind my sister,’ she says. ‘She forgets her manners when she drinks. Do come in.’ With a flourish that would make a game show hostess proud – and an elbow to the ribs for me – Frankie gestures for Mitchell to follow her inside.

  On the street, the driver of the ominous four-wheel drive kills the engine.

  ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she asks as she shows him into the living room.

  ‘I don’t drink, but thank you,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, are you an addict?’

  And there’s the Frankie I know and love. ‘Frankie!’

  ‘What? Isn’t everyone “in recovery” in Hollywood?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Mitchell says with that same resonant chuckle. ‘Not me, though. I just prefer to steer clear of alcohol. Keep a clear head, especially when I’m shooting. You know?’

  Frankie nods wisely, though she absolutely doesn’t know.

  ‘It’s been great to meet you, Frances, but I wonder if I might borrow Kitty for just a few minutes?’

  ‘Oh. Sure,’ she says and places her wine glass on the coffee table. ‘I’ll just . . . I need to . . . I’ll be in . . .’ And she drifts out of the room.

  Mitchell turns expectantly to face me. ‘So . . .’ he says.

  ‘So.’

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down? It’s been a long day.’ He looks longingly at the sofa.

  But I’m not ready to let him off the hook for his part in it just yet.

  ‘You mentioned there was something you wanted to say.’

  His expression clouds briefly. ‘Right. Of course,’ he says after a moment. ‘I really am sorry about what happened today, Kitty. I didn’t intend to kick Sphinx – I would never intentionally hurt an animal – and I truly regret what happened.’

  ‘You regret what happened? That’s a politician’s apology if ever I’ve heard one.’

  A smile plays across his full lips. ‘You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?’ He sits down heavily on the couch and clears his throat. ‘Do you think I could have a glass of water?’

  I go into the kitchen to fetch a glass for Mitchell and am greeted by four forlorn sets of eyes peering in the back door. Dolly’s tail thumps loudly against the back deck when she sees me.

  ‘Puppy dogs! What are you doing shut out there?’ Sleeping in my bedroom indeed. When will I learn to stop trusting everything that comes out of my sister’s mouth?

  I open the door and the dogs whirl in, running straight to their empty food bowls. I dish up generous helpings of dry food, noting guiltily that it’s way past their usual dinnertime. What kind of dog-parent am I? A movie star comes calling and all of a sudden nothing else matters. Get a grip, Kitty.

  ‘Sounds like you have some hungry customers out there,’ he says as I set his water on the coffee table and top up my wine glass. ‘You must really love dogs.’

  I shrug. ‘I always have. In my experience, dogs tend to be nicer than most people.’

  Mitchell nods approvingly and takes a sip of his water. ‘I’m sorry I kicked Sphinx,’ he says simply. ‘I take my work very seriously. Sometimes too seriously. I was having a shitty day, but that wasn’t his fault and it definitely wasn’t yours.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  We sit in thoughtful silence for a moment as, one by one, the dogs meander into the room. Dolly, Carl and Bananarama retire straight to their respective beds for a post-dinner snooze, but Reggie bounds over to the couch and thrusts his snout into Mitchell’s crotch.

  ‘Whoa! Hey there, big fella!’

  ‘He can’t hear you,’ I say. I use both hands to wrench Reggie’s boulder-sized head into more polite territory, though not without noticing the tiny tingle where my hand brushes Mitchell’s worn denim jeans. ‘He was born deaf.’

  Mitchell snaps his fingers in front of Reggie’s face. The quick movement captures Reggie’s attention and he fixes his gaze on the sweet-smelling stranger. Mitchell drops his right arm down by his knees with the open palm facing up, then brings his hand up towards his right shoulder in a beckoning motion.

  Reggie sits.

  Next, Mitchell holds the same arm directly out in front of him at shoulder height with his palm facing the floor. Reggie is still watching him intently. When Mitchell lowers his arm toward the floor, Reggie lies down.

  ‘Good boy,’ he says, offering Reggie a thumbs-up and a scratch behind the ears.

  Reggie sighs contentedly and closes his eyes, and any lingering anger I might have felt toward Mitchell vanishes in that instant.

  ‘How do you know dog sign language? Did you learn it for a role?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I learned it when I was a kid. We had this Dalmatian, Hugo. He was such a great dog, but he was deaf and we didn’t know it right away. He was always getting into trouble because he couldn’t hear us. Like, he’d run off and wouldn’t come back when we called him or he’d dig holes in the yard because he never heard “stop that”. My dad got tired of having this bad dog. He wanted to get rid of Hugo, but there was nothing wrong with him, you know? He was a healthy, boisterous dog – a puppy, really – who just couldn’t hear.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I made my dad promise me that, if I could figure out a way to train Hugo, we could keep him. So I went to the local shelter and persuaded one of the volunteers there – Patti was her name – to teach me dog sign language. She must have thought I was crazy! This eight-year-old kid, desperate to “talk” to his deaf dog. But Hugo picked it up right away. He was such a smart little guy.’

  Mitchell smiles a little as he remembers his faithful companion. ‘He lived to be fourteen. That’s really old for a Dalmatian.’ There’s a definite note of pride in his voice, as if Mitchell’s care and attention were the key factors in Hugo’s longevity. And who knows? Maybe they were.

  ‘You don’t speak to your father anymore?’ I cringe the moment the words leave my lips. I only know this little factoid because Martha told me, and the last thing I want to do is remind Mitchell how he stumbled across us dissecting his private life yesterday.

  His face clouds momentarily. ‘Not for years,’ he says crisply. ‘I’m not one to bash my head against a brick wall.’

  Cryptic. I’m itching to pry further, but I think I’ve squeezed enough personal information out of this guy for one day. Best to stick to small talk. ‘Do you have a dog now?’

  ‘No. My, uh, Vida didn’t like them.’ He takes a hasty gulp of his water and looks away, but the damage has been done. The ex-girlfriend’s
name has been lobbed into the conversation like a hand grenade.

  ‘I think I owe you an apology too, Mitchell,’ I say just as the atmosphere in the room becomes really uncomfortable. Saying his name aloud feels strangely illicit; it’s like those two syllables together generate an electric charge. ‘I’m sorry you overheard Martha and me talking about your love life. It was really rude and totally unprofessional, especially in your trailer.’

  Mitchell smiles wearily and runs a hand through his hair. ‘You don’t need to apologise for that. It’s a professional hazard. I’m used to it, believe me.’

  ‘Still. I’m not a gossip. Just so you know.’

  He gives me a long look. I can’t read him in that moment, but I feel my pulse quicken.

  ‘I know,’ he says at last. ‘I think there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye, Kitty.’

  ‘Uh-huh. More water?’ I say, because I have to say something.

  Mitchell looks at his (no doubt ridiculously expensive) stainless-steel wristwatch.

  ‘Thanks, but I’d better go. Early call tomorrow.’ He eases his foot out from under Reggie’s chin and stands. ‘I’m going to get you your job back. It wasn’t fair that you were fired. Everyone on Solitaire knows that.’

  ‘Thanks but, um, no thanks. I think my getting the boot —’

  Mitchell cringes at my clumsy choice of words.

  I remove my foot from my mouth and try again. ‘Sorry. I think my being let go was a blessing in disguise. That du Renne is a psychopath. I don’t want to work for somebody like that, and I wouldn’t want to put another dog through it either.’

  He nods thoughtfully. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ve gotta say, I admire your integrity.’

  He looks at his watch again but doesn’t move toward the door. He looks out the window. He looks at the dogs lined up in their beds. They look back at him.

  Finally, Mitchell looks back at me and takes a deep breath. ‘It’s fine that you don’t want the job back, but . . .’ A pained expression crosses his handsome face.

  ‘But what?’ I prompt gently.

  He takes a deep breath. ‘What I’m really trying to say is that I’d like to see you again.’

  The sentence is so unexpected, so downright shocking, that he could have said he’d like to dress up in my clothes and I’d have been less surprised.

  ‘Are . . . are you asking me out?’ I hope the expression on my face doesn’t reflect the weird mix of terror and something like joy that I feel inside.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But I’m not doing a very good job of it.’

  Mitchell Pyke is asking me out. Mitchell Pyke, a bona fide, honest-to-goodness film star. And he’s nervous about it.

  ‘I’d like to go out with you.’ I’m not aware I’m going to say those words until they’re actually forming on my lips. And yet there they are, hanging between us.

  Mitchell smiles. Not the tentative half-smiles he’d flirted with earlier, but a big, broad, happy grin.

  ‘Great. That’s great,’ he says, visibly relieved. ‘Tomorrow night?’

  I nod. The power of speech appears to have deserted me.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow then.’ And he heads for the door.

  Frankie propels out of her room like a missile the second I close the front door behind Mitchell.

  ‘What happened? Is he going to sue? I didn’t hear shouting. I figured that was a good sign.’

  I hold up my hands to stem the tide of her questions. I need a moment to process this.

  ‘He’s not suing,’ I tell her. ‘He apologised. And then he asked me out.’

  Frankie’s jaw drops. ‘You are fucking kidding me.’

  I shake my head slowly. ‘I’m not.’

  She plants her hands on her hips. ‘So, let me get this straight. I get dumped by Dominic the douchebag and you punch a movie star and get a date?’

  ‘That seems a fairly accurate summary.’

  Frankie marches into the living room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I ask her retreating back.

  ‘We’re going to need more wine!’

  5.

  Frankie insists we go shopping the next day. ‘I will not allow my sister to go out with Mitchell Pyke in some hideous sack that’s covered in dog hair,’ she says as she drives us toward the local shopping centre with far more speed than is necessary. ‘You know your date is going make the papers. I’ve got my reputation to think about.’

  ‘Do you really think that’s really true?’

  ‘Yes. You need a total wardrobe overhaul.’

  ‘No, I mean about the papers. Do you think they’ll write about me? About us?’

  ‘Um, hello. Local nobody swept off her feet by international megastar. That’s a story, sis.’

  I groan aloud. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t go. It’s probably not worth it.’

  Without warning, Frankie pulls the car haphazardly up to the kerb and slams on the brakes. The abrupt manoeuvre is met with a chorus of horns and shouting from the drivers behind us.

  ‘Jesus, Frankie! Are you trying to get us killed?’

  She turns to face me, a no-nonsense look on her face. ‘What exactly is your problem?’

  ‘How much time do you have?’

  ‘I’m serious, Kitty. What is this aversion you have to doing anything you might remotely enjoy? You don’t have to be so serious all the time. It’s like you’re allergic to fun.’

  ‘I am not allergic to fun,’ I say huffily. ‘But really, what’s the point in going out with someone like Mitchell? Aside from the whole “stratospherically famous” thing, he lives in Los Angeles and he’s only here for a few more weeks. Where can it possibly go?’

  Frankie rolls her eyes. ‘Well, I hope for your sake it goes straight to some plush suite in a fancy hotel. No one’s saying you have to marry the guy. You just need to get laid.’ She says this in a very matter-of-fact way, as though my becoming another notch on Mitchell’s bedpost will solve all the world’s problems.

  ‘Oh, come on, Frankie. I’m not going to sleep with him on the first date. I’m not like . . . like . . . you know.’

  ‘You’re not like what? Like me?’ She raises her eyebrows in mock outrage, but I can tell she’s amused. ‘Well, maybe you should try to be a bit more like me, big sister. You might like it.’

  Frankie pulls back onto the road without looking, prompting another flurry of honking behind us. As she weaves in and out of the traffic, Frankie’s words play on my mind. Is she right? Am I a stick-in-the-mud who doesn’t know how to have a good time? It’s true I haven’t had a proper boyfriend since before Mum died. I’d been with Daniel for a couple of years, but I ended it when she got sick. He didn’t understand why I couldn’t suddenly drop everything and escape for the weekend or go bar-hopping through Surry Hills with him on a Wednesday night. He didn’t like how much she needed me.

  Since then there’ve been a couple of short-lived things. I couldn’t really call them relationships. I met Ryan at the dog park right after we lost Mum, but that fizzled out after a few weeks. Then there was Chris, a friend of Adam’s. We met at a house party and went out a couple of times, but he trotted out the ‘I like you as a friend’ speech before we’d even slept together. That was, what, a year ago?

  I guess Frankie has a point; things have been pretty barren on the man front lately. But it’s not as if I have loads of time to devote to a relationship. Between my business, the dogs and the house, not to mention trying to get Frankie to behave vaguely like a grown-up, most days I count myself lucky if I can get from dawn to dusk without some major crisis unfolding. Where would a serious boyfriend figure among all that?

  Then again, if my dream about Mitchell is anything to go by, something serious is not what I need right now. Once more, the memory of his insistent fingers in my dream makes my breath catch in my throat. He might not be a long-term prospect – I’m still not entirely convinced I even like him – but I am sure of one thing: I want him.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.
<
br />   Frankie looks at me curiously. ‘Okay what?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go out with Mitchell and I won’t overthink it and if . . . something should happen between us, then that would be fine.’

  My sister looks genuinely astounded. ‘And here I thought we were just going to get you an outfit. I didn’t realise epiphanies were on the shopping list.’

  Frankie parks the car and steers me into all the shops I usually avoid, then forces me to try on the shortest, tightest and most plunging clothes they sell. After two hours, I haven’t bought a thing and my earlier resolve is wavering.

  ‘I can’t wear this stuff,’ I wail as I discard yet another postage-stamp-sized dress.

  ‘Why not?’ comes Frankie’s disembodied voice from beyond the fitting-room curtain.

  ‘Well, I’m thirty, for one thing, not thirteen. And I don’t even know where Mitchell is taking me tonight. He hasn’t called yet to confirm the plans.’

  Cold horror suddenly grips my insides. Oh god. He hasn’t called. I dart out of the fitting room and grab my handbag from underneath the chair Frankie’s sitting on, idly inspecting her fingernails.

  ‘That look might be a little risqué for a first date,’ my sister says blithely, looking-but-not-looking at my bra and knickers. ‘The underwear usually happens at the end of the evening. If you’re lucky.’

  But I’m not listening. I grapple for my phone and check the time: three-fifteen p.m. No messages are displayed on the screen. I check the missed-calls list: nothing. The day is practically over and Mitchell hasn’t called. Is he planning to stand me up?

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ says Frankie, still picking at her nails. ‘You’re overthinking it.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s weird I haven’t heard from him by now?’

  She looks at me at last. ‘Don’t be that girl, Kitty.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘That girl who second-guesses herself. That girl who gets all crazy needy just because some guy with a hot body and a big bank balance gives her the time of day. That girl,’ she says.